


Kiss, interrupted

by BlueVase



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Angst, F/M, First Kiss, Love, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 03:35:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10845657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueVase/pseuds/BlueVase
Summary: What if Doctor T and Sister B had kissed, only for Sister Julienne to find them? Sister B has some serious thinking to do regarding her life as a nun. Somehow, a metaphor surrounding cake and biscuits snuck its way in here.TW: abuse





	1. Chapter 1

She scrubbed the sink with such force that her fingers ached. Suds flew up and floated gently down unto the tiles, shimmering in the sunlight. Sister Bernadette stopped for a moment to get a better grip on the slippery sponge, then attacked the sink with renewed vigour.

She had hoped that the cold water and silky texture of the sponge would ground her. However, her hands knew the motions required of them and her mind began to wander.

Not even the dull ache that started between her shoulder blades caused by her hunching could keep her thoughts in check.

She had only to close her eyes and see his face. She could dream the little dimple in his chin, the way his dark hair flopped over his forehead, his large and calloused hands…

“Focus!” she hissed as she made a large sweeping movement, causing water to slosh over the edge of the sink and drip unto the lino.

“I think that sink is as spotless as it’s ever going to be,” a gentle voice remarked. Sister Bernadette spun around. Doctor Turner stood on the threshold of the kitchen, his bag in one hand, a saucer and china cup in the other and a smile trying to hide in the corner of his mouth. Sister Bernadette felt herself blush and averted her eyes.

“I’m sorry, did I startle you?”

“I did not know you were here, doctor,” she said. She forced herself to look at the foam that dribbled slowly to the centre of the sink.

“I forgot my bag,” he said, holding it up for her to see.

“A doctor without his bag won’t do,” Sister Bernadette agreed. She dug the nails of her left hand into her palm.

“No, not at all. Say, do you know where I can find Sister Julienne? I thought she would be here,” he asked.

 _Don’t look at him, keep looking at the sink, for God’s sake don’t stare…_ Sister Bernadette repeated the words in her head like a mantra.

“Sister Julienne was called out. She’s been a while. She won’t be long now, I don’t think,” she said. She toyed with the sponge, squeezing it and forcing to focus herself on the sensation of cold, soapy water that trickled over her fingers.

“Ah, I see. Well, I should be on my way. No rest for the wicked,” Doctor Turner said and put the cup and saucer down.

“You haven’t eaten the biscuit,” Sister Bernadette said, angling her body towards his without noticing and finally looking him in the face.

“I hadn’t noticed, I…” he stopped mid-sentence. The smile that had hid around the doctor’s mouth now showed itself.

“Is something funny?” she asked.

“You have a bit of…” he said, putting his bag down, closing the space between them with two long strides and raising his hand to her face. He placed his fingertips lightly on her left cheekbone, using his thumb to brush away a bit of foam. His touch was so light that she could almost tell herself that she imagined it.

“I think you would call that the zygomatic bone,” she whispered. Everything in her cried out that he should remove his hand, that he should not touch her face, not even with his fingertips, but she could not bring herself to say it. She realised it was because, even though he should not touch her, she wanted him to.

“You are correct,” Doctor Turner said. His voice had grown husky and very soft. Their eyes found each other and their gazes locked. She could see the flecks of gold sprinkled in the hazel, the tiny speck of dust that clung to one of his lashes, and felt that she had never seen something more beautiful.

Later, she could not say exactly when she had snapped out of her paralysis, if she had made the first move or whether the doctor had. She just knew that his hand no longer lay along her cheek, but cupped her chin instead and tilted her head upwards. His lips almost touched hers when he seemed to hesitate. His eyes sought hers, looking for something.

Desire?

Trust?

Permission?

Her breath hitched as she brought her mouth to his. His lips touched her as lightly as his fingertips had. She closed her eyes and lost herself in the sensation. His lips were a bit dry and flaky, his breath warm.

It took only seconds before their lips lost contact.

Electricity shot along Sister Bernadette’s spine. Every smouldering nerve sprang to life, a raging inferno that burned within her. She felt as if she was on fire. Something clicked in her throat as she swallowed.

He pressed his lips against her again. This kiss was less fragile, more demanding. His right hand pulled her face closer, deepening their kiss, as his left snaked around her waist and splayed on her back.

Her hands travelled along the lapels of his coat, one nestling on the border where the fabric met stubbled skin, the other nestling in his hair. She brushed his ear with the top of her thumb. He shuddered and pressed his fingers into her back. She could feel the heat through the layers of her habit and clung to him to prevent her knees from giving out. He hooked one of his digits beneath the strap of her wimple, tickling the sensitive flesh of her throat where her pulse thundered.

They did not hear the staccato of approaching footsteps till a clear voice rang out “Sister Bernadette?” and someone stepped into the kitchen.

The invisible force that had pulled them together now separated them just as quickly. Doctor Turner stepped back and nearly fell over his doctor’s bag. Sister Bernadette stumbled into the sink and planted her hands in the suds to stop herself from toppling, spraying herself with cold water.

Sister Julienne stood on the threshold, a questioning look written plain on her face.

 _I wonder what she can read plainly on my face_ , Sister Bernadette thought. Suddenly, shame coiled in her belly. Her face turned scarlet and her heart beat so fast in her chest that it felt more like a little drummer than anything else.

“Can somebody tell me what is going on?” Sister Julienne asked.


	2. Chapter 2

Sister Bernadette felt as if she was going to faint. If sheer mortification could be a cause of death, she would have died on the spot. She felt the overwhelming urge to collapse, cry, puke, or all three. None of those were viable options, however, so she just stood rooted to the spot, her eyes trained on the floor and her hands shaking.

“I am waiting,” Sister Julienne said.

Doctor Turner cleared his throat. “Sister, we…” He faltered, swallowed audibly and tried again. “Sister Julienne, I…”

  
“We kissed,” Sister Bernadette whispered. Tears pooled in her eyes. Their warmth turned her glasses foggy.

“I see,” Sister Julienne said quietly. Was that disappointment in her voice, or mere shock?

Sister Bernadette looked up and tried to discern the look on her religious sister’s face, but Sister Julienne had become cold and unreadable. Sister Bernadette felt nausea crawl up her throat and looked to her shoes again. A headache was brewing behind her eyes.

“Doctor Turner, I believe you have calls to make,” Sister Julienne said. From the corner of her eye Sister Bernadette could see that his face had taken on an impressive shade of crimson.

“I’d better get on with it, then,” he mumbled and took his bag from the floor. “Good afternoon, Sister Julienne,” he said as he made his way to the door. On the threshold he paused and turned his head slightly as if he was about to say something, but he thought the better of it and left.

Sister Bernadette released a shaky breath and tried to stop her hands from shaking by folding them together so tightly that her knuckles turned white. She still felt unable to look up, but for fear of vomiting or from meeting the eyes of her superior Sister she did not know. She felt as if she was a young girl again, waiting for a scolding from the head-mistress. This was worse, though; the consequences of what she had done today would be far-reaching.

“Sister Bernadette, look at me,” Sister Julienne said. Her voice was no longer detached, her words no longer clipped. Instead, she sounded concerned and friendly. It was precisely the concern and sweetness that undid Sister Bernadette. Tears streamed down her face as sobs racked her body. Her knees felt as if they were made of elastic. She didn’t wait for them to give out, but sat down, her back against the kitchen cabinets. She removed her glasses with her right hand and pressed the left to her eyes in a futile attempt to stem the flow of tears.

“Oh, my dear Sister Bernadette,” Sister Julienne sighed and sat down next to her.

“I’m sorry,” Sister Bernadette hiccupped, burying her face in the fabric of her habit.

“My dear, sweet girl, why are you crying?”

“Because I am ashamed, sister, ashamed and confused and sorry.” Her words came out in strangled gasps. Sister Julienne gently pulled Sister Bernadette’s face to her shoulder and stroked it. With her free hand she firmly clasped the hands of her sister.

“What are you sorry for?”

“Everything! I’m sorry that Doctor Turner and I kissed, I’m sorry that you saw, but I’m also sorry that it didn’t last longer and that makes me ashamed. I…” She was too overcome by emotion to say more. Sister Julienne slowly rocked her and stroked circles with her thumb on Sister Bernadette’s hand. After what seemed hours Sister Bernadette’s breathing came more evenly and the flow of tears decreased till it was no more than the occasional droplet.

“I’m sorry, Sister. I don’t think I can tell you much more today,” she whispered. The headache that had been building up was now in full force. It felt as if her skull was too big for the layers of tissue that surrounded it.

“Perhaps that is for the best. You were lucky that it was me who found you, and not Sister Evangelina,” Sister Julienne said. Sister Bernadette managed a weak smile. She guessed that Sister Evangelina would probably have given her and Doctor Turner both a clout before screaming at them. Sister Julienne helped her up and offered her a glass of water. Sister Bernadette forced herself to drink it. The cool liquid soothed her ragged throat somewhat.

“I think I’ll go to my room and try to sleep a bit, with your permission,” Sister Bernadette whispered. She polished her glasses so she did not have to look the older nun in the face.

“Perhaps that is for the best as well. Try and get some rest.” Sister Bernadette made for the door, but the words of her religious sister stopped her.

“Sister Bernadette, I am afraid you will have to give me a better explanation as to what I witnessed here today. Not tonight, but tomorrow certainly. You will have to ask yourself what the habit you wear really means to you.” The words were spoken quietly and in a halting manner. Sister Bernadette guessed that Sister Julienne had rather not said them, but felt that she had to.

“Of course, Sister. Now pray excuse me,” she said and fled to the quietness of her room.


	3. Chapter 3

Sister Bernadette closed the door behind her and took a deep breath. She felt dog-tired, but knew that she could not sleep. Her head was in turmoil.

 _You will have to ask yourself what the habit you wear really means to you_. Sister Julienne’s words kept going round and round in her head. Sister Bernadette fingered the navy fabric. There had been a time she had felt blessed to wear it. It hid her body from the world, providing a sense of security and comfort that had been unknown to her before. Now, it felt restricting. She removed the cross from her breast, then her wimple. The heavy fabric of her habit followed; she folded it neatly and placed it on the chair next to her bed. Dressed only in her slip she knelt in front of the cross on her wall, folded her hands and prayed.

“God, forgive me, for I have sinned…” she said, then faltered. She thought long and hard about her feelings, tried to find words and phrases that fitted the situation, but soon she had to admit that she was not eloquent enough to do her emotions justice. She brushed a tear away with her thumb and tried again.

“I kissed Doctor Turner today, because…”

How could she put into words that there was an ache deep within her, a longing, wistfulness, and that that ache had been there for as long as she could remember? It was a pervasive pain that nestled itself somewhere underneath her sternum in a tight knot. The tiniest thing could tug on the strings of it and sent shoots of pain that travelled along her spine and dug themselves in the place where her skull met the first vertebra of her neck. It was the place where her mother’s last kiss had been. When the pain was particularly bad, Sister Bernadette would kneel down and pray. Ever since her mother died, she had used prayer as a form of respite. The words were unique every time, yet they were the same, too. There was comfort in that familiarity, and adventure in that uniqueness.

“I did not mean to betray your love for me, but…”

How could she explain that her love for God had been all there was once, but that her perspective was shifting? Sister Bernadette had felt so certain of her path when she took her religious vows. She had been a room filled with darkness and pain, and then the curtain was removed, flooding her with light. As a nun she had a clear purpose: she served, and in serving was rewarded. She could leave her old life behind, strive to purge herself of pain and sin and become a vessel for the Lord’s work.

“But thinking I could achieve that was vanity,” Sister Bernadette told herself. A room filled with light from the outside still contained darkness. It hid in crevices and corners, but it was still there. After all, it was the nature of light to cast a shadow. So, like a shadow, that sense of longing had lain dormant. She had occasionally been reminded of it, faint twinges on her heartstrings: when Chummy had talked of her courtship of constable Noakes, and when the nurses had gone dancing. Still, those faint impressions of need had been easy enough to ignore. Timothy, however, had not been.

“I just wanted to help that little boy,” she whispered.

How could she do the depth of her emotions for Timothy Turner justice? She had recognized so much of herself in that boy: his need for a mother figure, his resentment for having to grow up so fast, his reaching out for a father that could not always be there for him. Sister Bernadette had tried to be there for him. She had wanted to ease those feelings, because there had never been anyone to help her when she was in his position but God, and God was a bit too distant for a child at times. However, as a grown woman, she could not avoid seeing from the perspective of his father, too. Doctor Turner tried, but he could not play a part that was meant for two people. His intentions were good, but he was fallible. He was only human, after all. So, she had reached out to him, trying to keep him from stumbling. Instead, she had only knocked herself off balance.

“Somehow, Doctor Turner became a person to me.”

Were there words to express what she felt for Doctor Turner? When they had kissed his face had become both her looking-glass and her window. She had briefly seen him as he saw her: brave, strong, beautiful. It was what she saw in his eyes, however, that still haunted her and prevented her from resting: in the hazel dusted with gold she had seen her own ache mirrored. The sense of longing, of wanting and needing something that was beyond words was part of him, too. In that one moment in which their gazes locked and their lips were drawn together she had seen deep inside him. She had seen the very fabric of his soul, and she had been surprised; it was so very familiar to her own. It was only when she was in his arms that, for the first time in her life, the longing inside her had stilled.

Sister Bernadette opened her eyes and looked at the cross on her wall.

“I love him like I love You. I pray, if that is wrong, that you take this love away from me, for I cannot bear much more,” she whispered.

The last few months Sister Bernadette had started to feel more and more like a rope in a tug-of-war between two enormous forces that she could not comprehend. She only knew that they would tear her like a rag-doll if they kept pulling much longer.

She got up and winced; her knees were sore from the hard ground. She rubbed her legs to get the blood flowing again, then crawled into bed and closed her eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

Sister Bernadette slept badly that night. Fragments of her prayer kept forcing themselves to the front of her mind as she tried to think of a decent explanation for Sister Julienne. Every sentence sounded stilted. Her words felt unfinished, half-drawn, broken.

In the end, she simply got up, donned her habit and wimple and went to Sister Julienne’s office. There was no sense in delaying the inevitable. Besides, Sister Bernadette doubted that she could ever adequately express what had prompted her to break her vow of chastity in the first place. She might as well get it over with before her brain turned into pudding.

“Ah, Sister Bernadette, please sit down,” Sister Julienne said as soon as Sister Bernadette entered. Sister Bernadette sat herself down opposite of her religious sister, her hands in her lap.

“Here, I’ve made you a cup of tea,” Sister Julienne said and pushed a china saucer with cup towards her. There was a tiny biscuit on the saucer.

 _Like the one Doctor Turner didn’t finish yesterday,_ Sister Bernadette thought and blushed.

“Thank you,” she said and cradled the cup with both hands. The china was soothingly warm.

Sister Julienne smiled at her as she sat herself down. “I’ve added a bit of sugar and milk,” she said.

Sister Bernadette took a tiny sip. Drinking tea was such an ordinary activity that she felt comforted by it. It also encouraged her in a strange way to open up to her religious sister, to finally spill the storm of emotions that had been brewing in her heart for the past few months. She opened her mouth, realised she still knew not how to express what was inside her and took another sip instead.

“Sister Bernadette, I will have to ask you some questions about what I witnessed yesterday,” Sister Julienne said.

“I understand.”

“Good. Now, did Doctor Turner in any way force his attentions upon you?”

Sister Bernadette’s head snapped up and met Sister Julienne’s gaze. The older nun’s face was serious, but open, too.

“No. Doctor Turner would never do that. He would never force anyone into doing something they would not want,” she said. The words tumbled out of her mouth in their haste to get out.

“No matter how unlikely, I still had to ask,” Sister Julienne said.

“I don’t want anyone thinking that I was not just as responsible for what happened yesterday, Sister.”

“Did anything like this happen before?” Sister Julienne asked.

Sister Bernadette shook her head. “No. I… Nothing improper happened before yesterday. I would swear it on the Bible.”

“Surely there’s no need. However, how then do I interpret what happened between you two in the kitchen?”

Sister Bernadette dug her nails into her palm to ground herself. “I… I can’t explain it, Sister. I have tried, I swear. I’ve gone over and over it inside my head all night, but I can’t put it into words.” Tears threatened to blur her vision. She wiped them away with the palm of her hand. She had no time for tears now.

“Sometimes the truth we look for is best put into a few simple words,” Sister Julienne said. She reached for Sister Bernadette’s hand and clasped it in hers.

“I think I love him, Sister. God forgive me, but I love him with all my soul.” They were silent for a little while.

“How long have you had those feelings?”

“I don’t know. For months, I think. They snuck up on me. They were so subtle. I could rationalize everything at first, push it away and pretend it was something else, right until I couldn’t.”

Sister Julienne gave the younger nun’s hand a slight squeeze. “And Doctor Turner, does he feel the same way about you?” she asked.

“I could not speak for him, Sister. We have never talked about it, but then there is so much we’ve never told each other. I honestly don’t know,” Sister Bernadette answered truthfully.

“I think I see,” Sister Julienne said. She pulled her hand back and folded it with the other, resting her chin on her fingertips.

“I did not mean to break my vows, Sister. I have been a nun for the past ten years. The religious life has brought me so much…” Sister Bernadette started toying with the biscuit, not having any other useful occupation for her fingers. It seemed to her as if her hands craved constant work. She supposed she had tried to keep her mind off of things that way before.

“Nonetheless, you have started walking on very thin ice. I know you would not do so without good cause; you are much too sensible for that. Am I correct when I assume that your feelings for Doctor Turner are not a fleeting infatuation?”

“I don’t know. I’ve prayed so often these last few months. I’ve asked God to take this feeling away from me. I…” She wanted to say that she had come to feel more and more that God ignored her. He no longer spoke to her. She could raise her voice to him all she want, but her emotions had not waned. Sometimes, in the dark hours of the night, she was almost sure that she had lost her faith.

“Every nun goes through a phase of doubt, Sister. It is easy to have faith when all is well, but it is only in times of trials and tribulations that we can prove the strength of our beliefs,” Sister Julienne said.

Sister Bernadette wanted to say that this could not possible be a phase, but the words shrivelled on her tongue and died there. She broke the biscuit in half and placed both parts back on the saucer.

“Sister Bernadette, let me be frank with you here. It seems to me that you have an important decision to make, and not one you should make lightly. Yesterday, I asked you to think of what the habit you wear means to you. I asked you that because you need to evaluate the life you are currently leading. As a nun, there is only one way you can go on loving Doctor Turner: secretly. You will have to put that feeling away, deep inside you, and never let it out. Giving into it will only lead to further heartbreak.”

“Are there many nuns that do so?” Sister Bernadette asked.

Sister Julienne looked away, training her eyes on her bookcase, before answering. “More than you might think. Perhaps, in time, you might find yourself looking back on these days with only fondness and nostalgia,” Sister Julienne said.

Sister Bernadette picked up part of the biscuit and stroked it with her fingertip. She doubted whether she could ever look back on this time of torment with fondness, but who was she to know? “I’m afraid, Sister, that I would ultimately come to resent God for demanding all my love,” she whispered, not daring to look Sister Julienne in the eye.

“My sweet girl, unlike what Sister Monica-Joan may have led you to believe, love is not a cake. It does not get halved when we share it. You should be able to love both our Lord and Doctor Turner, but the love of the latter must be completely selfless. As a nun, you cannot indulge yourself.”

Sister Bernadette felt queasy. Was she strong enough to do as her sister asked? Could she lock away her feelings, only occasionally letting them out of their box to gaze upon them as one would look at faded and yellowed photographs?

 _No_ , a soft voice in her head told her. _You would have to see the doctor every day, at work. You would have to be distant and cold and professional. It would rub your heart raw and bloody till you would not feel anything._

“And my other options?” Sister Bernadette looked up, desperately searching for answers in the sweet eyes of the older nun.

Sister Julienne went quiet, tapping her fingertips against each other and staring at her bookcase. “You would have to renounce your holy vows and leave the order,” she said softly.

“I see. Thank you for speaking with me, Sister. You have given me much to think about,” Sister Bernadette said. She left Sister Julienne’s office and went to collect her bag, thinking that drowning herself in work was the only sensible thing she could do right now. It was only when she went to unclasp her bag that she noticed she still clutched part of the biscuit in her hand.


	5. Chapter 5

In the next few days Sister Bernadette forced herself to think on everything Sister Julienne had said. She spent her free time in the chapel, on her knees, praying to God to show her the way, or to take her feelings away. The tight knot under her sternum only seemed to knit itself tighter into the fabric of her being.

At work, she both craved and dreaded seeing Doctor Turner. She suspected that Sister Julienne was keeping them apart until she had made up her mind; she had been put on the district roster, minimizing the chance of running into the doctor. During clinic Sister Julienne always seemed to float near her whenever they got close, preventing them from exchanging anything more than strictly necessary medical information. Sister Bernadette didn’t know whether she loved her sister for protecting her, or wanted her to just leave her in peace.

After two weeks she was still no closer to a decision. She felt tired and disgusted with herself.

“You are useless,” she whispered as she put the kettle on to make some tea for herself and the other nurses. Tuesday Clinics tended to be busy, but as the day neared its end the steady flow of patients petered out and allowed Sister Bernadette to take a breather.

“Sister?”

She turned around.

Doctor Turner stood a few steps away from her, a teacup and saucer dwarfed in his big hands. He clutched them almost protectively, almost as a peace offering, as if showing her that he had a valid reason to be here.

“Doctor,” Sister Bernadette greeted him. She turned back to the cupboards and started to line teacups up on the counter for when the tea was ready.

“Sister, I have to speak with you. I…”

“Sister Bernadette?” Nurse Lee popped her head around the corner and peeked into the kitchen. “You’re wanted. Sister Julienne needs your help.”

“Thank you, Nurse Lee. I’ll be just a moment,” Sister Bernadette said, placing the last cup on a matching saucer.

Doctor Turner just stood there, fiddling with the handle of his cup, rhythmically clicking his nails against the rim.

Sister Bernadette smoothed her habit and made to leave the kitchen.

“Please?” The word was hardly more than a whisper.

Sister Bernadette turned her head to look at the doctor. There it was: that almost bottomless longing, the need and ache of it, his helplessness and hers written in his eyes. She felt as if someone was pushing on her chest, slowly squeezing the breath out of her. “Not here. This is neither the time nor place. After I’ve finished my rounds, I’ll go to the Carter twin’s place.”

“I’ll see you there,” he answered, and made as if to reach out and squeeze her hand.

She averted her eyes and left the kitchen before her body could betray her and she did something she shouldn’t.

X

She had chosen the place of their rendezvous because she suspected that no-one from Nonnatus would see them there, but also because it was a public space. Passer-by’s would simply assume that they stood there talking about a case; public scrutiny would also ensure that they would not do something inappropriate.

The doctor’s green MG was already parked when Sister Bernadette arrived, its owner leaning against the hood and smoking a cigarette.

 _I could do with a Henley_ , Sister Bernadette thought as she parked her bike against one of the nearby buildings.

Doctor Turner took a deep drag of his cigarette and exhaled the smoke slowly. It curled around his face, blurring his features, before falling apart.

“Doctor Turner,” Sister Bernadette said. She stopped next to him and placed her hands on the hood of his car whilst leaning back. The polished metal was still warm.

“Sister Bernadette,” he said, giving her a slight nod of his head. He took another drag of his Henley, then dropped the bud and crushed it beneath his shoe. Sister Bernadette saw all of this from the corner of her eye; she tried to look straight ahead, afraid of losing herself again if she looked into his eyes.

Doctor Turner took out his cigarette case and picked up another Henley. He made as if to put the lid back on, but hesitated. “Do you want one?”

Sister Bernadette opened her mouth to decline, but thought the better of it. “Yes, actually.” It would give her hands something to do.

Doctor Turner offered her one and lit it for her, then took one himself. They stood in silence for a while, blowing smoke to the heavens.

Sister Bernadette thought of the first time she had stood here, secretly taking a wee puff from the Doctor’s cigarette after the delivery of the Carter twins. She wondered if she had crossed some line when she told him of her years as a teenage smoker. Could something as small as sharing a cigarette-she had tasted tobacco and something she imagined was Doctor Turner- change someone’s life so irrevocably? Had she chosen a path that way from which there was no turning back? She had told herself that she merely shared his smoke because she deserved something after being clouted by Meg Carter, but now she realised she had wanted to prolong the moment, of being in the presence of the man who now stood next to her. She had suggested they meet up here because it was the first one that popped in her mind; now, she felt as if her subconscious had forced her hand, bringing her back to, if not the beginning, at least the first place she realised that control was slipping away from her. She almost wished she could go back to the first time she smoked, to being that girl of fourteen, coltish and awkward and trying to be brave, proving to no-one in particular that she was mature enough to smoke.

“I guess you never imagined yourself here when you sneaked your father’s Henleys from his desk,” Doctor Turner remarked, as if he had read her thoughts.

“No.” Sister Bernadette inhaled deeply and held the smoke in her lungs, relishing the sensation before exhaling.

They were quiet again. Doctor Turner sighed as he finished his second cigarette, flicking the remainder away and combing through his hair with one hand.

“Sister Bernadette, I want to apologise. I’ve wanted to apologise ever since that day in the kitchen. I understand if you never want to see me again. Hell, I’d want the same, were I in your shoes.”

A twinge of fear and pain shot through Sister Bernadette. Surely he could not think that she hated him?

“My actions are unforgivable, yet I beg your forgiveness,” Doctor Turner said.

Sister Bernadette looked at the burning tip of her Henley. It crawled ever closer to her fingers; already she could feel its heat. “There’s nothing to forgive, Doctor,” she said softly.

“But there is! I took liberties with you that I should never have taken. I kissed you!” The last three words were whispered.

“And I kissed you,” Sister Bernadette said. She could not help herself: she turned her face towards him.

He had knitted his brow and the corners of his mouth pointed down. There was a sliver of tobacco on his bottom lip. “You are a nun.”

“Yes.” She bit her bottom lip. If only she could tell him how she loved him, wanted him, craved him! Yet she fled from him, time and time again, because her affections were not hers to give. She was a nun and wore the token of her allegiance to the Lord on her left hand. The golden ring had never felt heavier as in that moment. She took the cigarette in her left hand and used the right one to push her glasses back on the bridge of her nose.

“Sister Bernadette, you are a nun, and I will respect that. I will never force you to do anything you don’t want to do, I respect you too much for that.” He swallowed. There was an audible click in his throat. “God forgive me, I love you so much, but I will let you go if that is what you wish.” His voice cracked.

Sister Bernadette opened her mouth to reply. She yelped, then hissed as the cigarette burned her flesh. Tears sprang in her eyes. She dropped it and stamped on it, harder than was necessary, taking some of her pain out on the Henley.

“What’s wrong?” Doctor Turner immediately leapt into action.

“I burned my hand,” she answered.

“Let me see,” Doctor Turner took her smarting hand in his. There was a blister rimmed with red forming on her ring finger.

His hands dwarfed hers. They were calloused, the skin dry from the constant washing. They were also warm and tender, holding her hand as if it was made of porcelain. He stroked her ring finger so softly that Sister Bernadette could almost tell herself that she was imagining it. Her lungs seized to work whilst her heart went into overdrive. The little drummer that hid there started pounding away till the blood thundered in her ears.

“You need to hold it under the tap. I’ll put some ointment on it to stop it from hurting,” Doctor Turner whispered.

She feared that he would kiss her again, and longed for it, but he didn’t. He let his thumb travel over her palm till it rested at the soft spot where her pulse fluttered. He gave that tender piece of flesh one small stroke, then let her hand go and opened his car to get his bag out. He used his thermos to wash the burn. It stung horribly; Sister Bernadette almost hissed when the water streamed over her hand.

Doctor Turner then applied some ointment on the blister, spreading it with utmost care till every affected spot had the same amount of salve. He wrapped her finger in some gauze to make sure her skin had enough time to absorb the ointment.

“The ointment may stain your ring a bit,” Doctor Turner said. Her ring was hidden by the gauze; only a faint bulge indicated that her finger was not bare.

Sister Bernadette felt light-headed and ready to cry. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“It was no trouble. Does it hurt?”

“It stings a little. It doesn’t matter. I can handle it.”

“If you were Timothy, I would probably give you a biscuit now,” the doctor joked.

“If I were Timothy, I would probably take it.”

They looked at each other and smiled, forgetting for a moment that they were the doctor and the little nun.

It was during this moment, her hand still enveloped by the doctor’s, that it hit her. Snippets of past conversations, thoughts and prayers whirled through her head.

_Love is not a cake. It does not get halved when we share it._

_Take this feeling away from me, I can’t bear much more._

_Somehow, Doctor Turner became a person to me_

_I serve, and in serving am rewarded._

_Show me the way._

_I wonder what she can read plainly on my face_

_Don’t stare._

_He is my looking-glass and my window._

_You must put that love away and never let it out._

_It would rub your heart raw and bloody till you would not feel anything._

_I just wanted to help that little boy._

_The very fabric of our souls is the same._

_Love is not a cake. It does not get halved when we share it._

_IT DOES NOT GET HALVED WHEN WE SHARE IT._

“Sister Bernadette, are you alright?” His words came from very far away.

“Love is not cake,” she whispered. Her face split in a smile.

“What?”

“It is not a cake,” she repeated as the world started to tilt. The pavement rushed towards her as she fainted.


	6. Chapter 6

“Sister Bernadette, can you hear me?” Sister Julienne asked.

Her head pounded. She could feel a scratchy fabric against her cheek. It took her sluggish thoughts a long time to realise that she was not lying on the ground, but that someone cradled her in his arms and that her head was resting against someone’s chest. The smell of Henleys and shaving cream told her that that person was, in all probability, Doctor Turner.

 _They cannot see. They must not see,_ she thought.

She should tell him to put her down, that nothing was the matter, but how could she do that when she could not even open her eyes? She could feel Doctor Turner’s heartbeat under her palm. It was steady, strong. Soon, the pounding of her head matched that rhythm.

“She looks positively translucent!”

“Nurse Franklin, go and make yourself useful instead of making daft comments!” Sister Evangelina snapped.

“How am I supposed to do that?” Trixie asked, sounding hurt.

A cool, slim hand felt her forehead.

“She has a considerable fever,” Sister Julienne said.

Sister Bernadette tried to speak. It felt as if iron bands spanned her chest, slowly tightening till her ribs would crush and her lungs would burst. She started to wheeze.

“She can’t breathe!” She hardly registered these sounds as words. They came from very far away. Sister Bernadette felt the curious sensation as if someone had put a hook through her consciousness and now pulled her backward, even though her body did not move. Then, everything was blackness.

X

Sister Bernadette woke up to see her mother’s face. It was blurry. She tried to focus, but that only caused bolts of pain to shoot through her head, bouncing against her skull. She groaned. Her mother put a wet flannel to her forehead, gently wiping it.

“Ma,” she whispered.

“Shh. Gently does it.” It was not her mother’s voice. Sister Bernadette knit her brows, forced her thoughts to slug through the sludge that was her brain.

“You’re not my mother.” Her breath came in short gasps. Her chest tightened.

“No. I’m Sister Julienne.” The woman’s face came a bit more into focus; blue eyes, a gentle smile.

“I knew that. My mother died when I was a child,” Sister Bernadette murmured.

“Are you in pain?”

“Hm.”

Sister Julienne helped her sit up and drink a bit of water and down some aspirin.

“I lied,” Sister Bernadette confessed. Her voice was hoarse.

“You did?”

She nodded, but stopped when it felt as if her brain was pounding against her forehead, demanding to be let out of her skull. “Doctor Turner was worried about Timothy. I told him that children are resilient.”

“And you think that that was lie?” Sister Julienne asked.

“No. But I didn’t tell him that my mother’s death left me with a hole that’s not been filled.” She wanted to say more, but as tears dripped patterns unto the blanket her chest tightened further. It was like drawing in air through a straw.

“Slow breaths, dear,” Sister Julienne held her as her chest heaved and her lungs squeaked, trying to draw in oxygen that seemed to elude her.

“I’m here,” Sister Julienne whispered in her ear whilst her hand rubbed small circles on her back.

 _I know_ , Sister Bernadette thought, and closed her eyes.

X

She smelled Henleys.

_She was fourteen years old again. She tiptoed into her father’s room, her shoes in one hand. The curtains were drawn, but a small beam of sunlight wriggled between them and splayed on her father’s desk._

_She placed her shoes next to her on the carpet and used both hands to gingerly open one of the drawers of his desk. The wood moaned and she flinched, waited for a moment, ensured herself that no one was coming. When all remained silent, she pulled the drawer open just far enough so that she could reach in with one hand. Her fingers slid over papers and encountered a pencil that was hardly more than a stub before closing over the little carton containing her father’s cigarettes. She slipped it open and took one between her fingers, then withdrew her hand and closed the drawer again. She nearly left then, until she remembered she needed a match if she wanted to light the cigarette, so she snuck back and took one from the box on top of the desk. She twirled the cigarette and match between her fingers. She turned towards the window, relishing the warmth of the solitary sunbeam on her face, and sighed._

_An iron hand closed around her upper arm and spun her around. Her father loomed over her, his face contorted into a mask of fury._

_“What are you doing, Shelagh?” Fear had paralysed her._

_“Well? I’ve asked you a question!” He shook her, his fingers burying deep into her flesh. She could feel bruises bloom there._

_“You’re hurting me!”_

_“Answer me!” he roared._

_Shelagh raised her hand, the one clutching the cigarette and the match._

_Her father snatched them from her, one hand tight as a vice still around her upper arm._ _“I did not raise you to go sneaking around the house and steal from me. Your mother would turn in her grave! Now, get out!”_

_She stumbled back behind the desk and grabbed her shoes._

_Her father lit the cigarette he had taken from her and inhaled the smoke deeply into his lungs. When Shelagh tried to get past him he blew the smoke into her face. Her eyes started to water. She coughed. Smoke swam around her father’s face, blurring his features. Her lungs started to burn._

Suddenly, she was sitting, her head resting against her father’s shoulder as coughs racked her body.

He held her tightly, rubbing her back and making soft noises in the back of his throat.

Eventually her breathing evened. Tears had left tracks on her cheeks, her ribs felt bruised and her lungs were raw, but at least she could breathe again.

“I’m sorry I stole your Henleys, I won’t do it again, I promise.”

“You can have one whenever you want.” Her father sounded surprised.

Shelagh wrinkled her brow in annoyance. First, he squeezed her arms till they looked like patterned wallpaper, then he blew smoke into her face till she coughed her lungs up, and now he told her she could smoke what she wanted? She tried to lift her face; her father grabbed her upper arms to keep her from toppling over. She flinched.

“Don’t bruise me, Da. People will see,” she mumbled. She could not make out his expression; her eyes refused to focus.

“Sister Bernadette?”

“Don’t call me that, I’m not a nun yet.”

The door opened and someone entered.

Shelagh closed her eyes; she was too tired to keep them open.

“How is she?” Was that Sister Evangelina? What was she doing here, in Aberdeen, in her father’s house? She was too tired to give it much thought.

“I think the fever has made her delirious,” her father said.

“No, it’s the smoke. And you shouldn’t squeeze me,” she murmured. The hook in her consciousness was back again and ripped her away.

X

_He is my window and my looking-glass._

She had to see Doctor Turner, she simply had to. There was something dreadfully important that she had to tell him. Her chest ached with her want; it tried to claw its way out of her body, leaving her throat in bloody ribbons. Sister Bernadette forced herself to get up, out of the bed. She had to find him.

“The mirror,” she told herself. The room danced around her, almost as if she was on a ship. She stumbled and nearly fell, her knees wobbly and her legs unsure, but she managed to stay upright in the end and reach the mirror. She stood in front of it, searching.

“Doctor Turner?” She flinched; her throat was raw, her voice hoarse.

“Doctor Turner?” She brought her face closer to the mirror so that she could focus. She knew she would see his face there. His hazel eyes dusted with gold would look back from the silvery surface; she would stretch out her hand and touch his floppy hair, standing on tip-toe to reach him.

Instead, she saw someone she did not recognize. The face that looked back from the looking-glass was angular, pale safe for two burning spots of colour on the cheeks, ill. The eyes were fever-bright. Their blue was highlighted by the white cap she wore on her head.

“That’s not Doctor Turner,” Sister Bernadette said. Sadness tugged viciously on the knot underneath her sternum. She felt like crying. Her fingertips brushed the cool surface of the mirror; the person on the other side did the same.

“But that cannot be me,” Sister Bernadette whispered. The cap belonged to a nun, and she no longer felt like one. Suddenly angry she tore it from her head and threw it across the room. Honey-coloured strands fell down her face, tickling the top of her spine.

“Sister Bernadette, what on earth are you doing out of bed?” Sister Evangelina was next to her. Her broad hands grabbed her elbows to keep her from falling over.

“I have to see Doctor Turner,” Sister Bernadette rasped.

“He’ll come by in an hour or so. Let’s get you into bed first.”

“That’s the voice you use for patients.”

“You are ill, Sister.”

“But I have to see the Doctor!” Sister Bernadette grabbed the fabric of her fellow sister’s habit and clung to it.

Sister Evangelina’s strong hands took hold of her wrists.

“I have to see him! I have to tell him!”

“When you’re in bed, you can tell me all you are so desperate to tell him, alright?” Her voice was still so friendly and soft.

Sister Bernadette sobbed, though no tears came. “I don’t deserve your kindness. I’m so tired, so so tired.”

“Then go and sleep a bit.” The older nun helped her into bed and tucked her in.

“I have to speak to Doctor Turner. It’s about cake. It is dreadfully important. Will you tell him?” Sister Bernadette clutched to her fellow religious sister.

“Of course, dear. Now, try and get some rest.”

X

The fourth time Sister Bernadette awoke she felt as if someone had opened a window inside her head and a soft spring breeze blew all the cobwebs away. She relished the feeling of cold, clean sheets against her fingertips. She lay in silence for a little while longer before opening her eyes.

“Ah, you have leapt out of the arms of Morpheus once more!” A dry hand felt her forehead. “And you have defeated the fever, just as I predicted. I drew your horoscope this morning, and knew you would be restored to us today.” These words were followed by a soft chuckle.

“Sister Monica-Joan?” Sister Bernadette slowly sat up and felt around for her glasses.

“I’ve even taken the liberty of bringing cake to celebrate!”

The room came into focus. The old nun held up a plate filled with slabs of almond sponge.

“Bah!” This came from Sister Evangelina who, together with Sister Julienne, entered the room.

“My dear sister!” Sister Julienne rushed to her side and took her hand in hers.

“Did you say ‘wake up today’?” Sister Bernadette asked.

“You’ve been very, very ill,” Sister Julienne explained.

“I did have the strangest dreams,” Sister Bernadette confessed.

“You had a fever of the brain. It is often accompanied by strange visions.” Sister Monica-Joan waved a piece of cake around as if to prove her point.

“Nonsense! You had a bad case of influenza and pneumonia. Now that the fever is broken you will start to feel better soon,” Sister Evangelina huffed.

“No, it is a fever of the brain. It happens when mind and emotions become unbalanced, and ratio suppresses the matters of the heart.”

“Stop waving that piece of cake around!” Sister Evangelina snapped.

“As you wish!” Sister Monica-Joan shoved the entire piece in her mouth; it was so big that she could hardly close her jaws.

“It is good to see you smile again,” Sister Julienne said. They held hands for a little while, the only sound being that of Sister Monica-Joan’s lip-smacking and Sister Evangelina’s exasperated huffs.

“I find that cake restores those who convalesce exceptionally well,” Sister Monica-Joan said and held the plate out to Sister Bernadette.

The cake… Realisation hit her like a bullet. She remembered.

“You can’t let her eat that, it’s much too rich!” Sister Evangelina took the plate and put it on the nightstand.

“Sister Julienne, do you suppose I could see Doctor Turner?” Sister Bernadette asked.

“He will come to check on you later today. Why?” Was she mistaken, or could she see a little dread in the eyes of the elder nun?

“I have realised something important, and I have to tell him first before I can tell you.”

With her thumb Sister Julienne drew a little circle on the back of Sister Bernadette’s hand. “If that’s what you wish.”

“I do.”

“Well, try to sleep a bit more before he comes. I’ll bring you some soup.” Sister Julienne squeezed her hand softly before leaving.

“Honestly, if no one is going to eat that formidable piece of confectionary, I see no other choice but to take up the challenge myself,” Sister Monica-Joan said, and put another piece of cake into her mouth before anyone could stop her.


	7. Chapter 7

“Sister Bernadette?” Doctor Turner entered her bedroom almost reverently. “I met Sister Monica-Joan on my way up. She insisted I bring this for you,” he said and held up a plate with a slab of cake and a half-eaten biscuit.

“I’ll wait outside in the corridor,” Sister Julienne said. She had sat next to Sister Bernadette, reading her Bible. She gave her younger sister’s hand a soft squeeze before leaving.

Sister Bernadette knew that the older nun would remain near, not quite close enough to overhear the conversation, but nearby enough to make sure nothing inappropriate happened.

Sister Bernadette sat up a bit straighter and smiled shyly, not quite meeting the doctor’s eyes. She knew what she must look like; drawn, pale, a washed-out nightgown that almost buttoned up to her chin. If she could, she would have chosen to meet him at a different place, a different time, looking differently. As it was, she felt she simply could not wait any longer. What she was about to tell him she had wanted to say before illness struck her down; she had waited long enough.

“It looks like Sister Monica-Joan sampled the biscuit herself,” Sister Bernadette said as she received the plate.

“She probably did.”

The cake smelled heavenly. It was coated in chocolate and cream, with a large dollop of jam that looked almost like a kiss.

“You’re looking a bit better,” the doctor remarked. He sat down on the chair next to her and put his bag down.

“I feel better, thank you.” She fiddled with the corner of her blanket.

“I am glad. You were quite delirious when I saw you last. You kept apologising for taking my cigarettes.”

She blushed. “I don’t remember.”

Doctor Turner folded his hands and rested his elbows on his knees. A smile hid in the corner of his mouth. “You did nothing upsetting.”

“I am glad.”

“How is your finger?”

Sister Bernadette held her hand out for him to see. The skin on her ring finger, though still an angry red, was no longer blistered.

“You’re no longer wearing your ring,” Doctor Turner noted.

“No.”

“Timothy kept asking to see you, but I thought it best to wait till you were a bit better.”

“I think I am well enough to receive visitors now. How is he?”

“He’s doing alright. I think he misses you.”

They fell quiet for a moment. Sister Bernadette rubbed the bridge of her nose; her glasses pinched a bit. Nothing felt right. The conversation was stilted, pausing at unnatural places, consisting of almost mandatory sentences used to express mere politeness. This was not how she imagined it would go. She dug her nails into her palms and took a deep breath. The cake next to her gave her both the strength and inspiration to say what she wanted.

“Doctor Turner, I did not want to speak to you about my health.” She tore her gaze away from the plate of cake on her lap and looked at him. His face was still, contemplative.

“The last few months I’ve been so confused. I felt like I was overflowing with emotion, but I had no way to share those feelings. I didn’t understand what God wanted from me, why he would send me desires that I could not express.”

Doctor Turner’s hand twitched, reaching for hers involuntarily before he knew it, then pulling back. Sister Bernadette forced herself to be brave and took his hand between hers, resting it beside her. Doctor Turner held perfectly still. She was not sure whether he was afraid she would change her mind if he moved, or whether he was surprised into motionlessness.

“A few days ago, Sister Julienne told me that love is not a cake; it doesn’t get halved when we share it. When we spoke, before I fell ill, it made me realise something. All this time, I believed I was a rag-doll, being pulled apart by opposite forces. How could I be a nun, but wish to be a wife and mother, too? Then I realised that there were no opposite forces; God was guiding me towards a window, and I kept questioning and over-thinking and struggling. He was trying to show me that I can love Him and be a mother and wife, too, but I kept fighting.” She wiped a stray tear away with her hand before placing it back on his.

“But you are a nun,” Doctor Turner whispered. He daren’t meet her eyes, focussing on his hand enveloped by hers instead.

“Yes, and as such, I cannot love another man but Him. But, if I left the order, I could still love Him and be devoted to Him with all my heart, and give just as much love to someone else, too.”

Doctor Turner’s eyes widened in surprise. “Are you saying that…?” He reached out with his other hand and held hers tightly.

“I have decided to leave the Order.”

Doctor Turner’s face was taken captive by a hundred-watt smile. “And that someone you want to love?”  
“Timothy, of course. Your son is in need of a mother. By extension, I’d be perfectly happy to love his father, too, if he were willing,” she joked shyly, repressing the urge to wink.

Doctor Turner didn’t say anything.

Sister Bernadette’s stomach clenched.

_You silly girl, he doesn’t want you, you’re pressuring him into something he doesn’t want…_

“Only if you want me, of course, Doctor,” she whispered.

Doctor Turner stared at her for just one moment before bursting out into laughter. “You would make me the happiest man in the world!” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed each knuckle.

Sister Bernadette couldn’t help herself; her face cracked open into a huge grin, too.

“Oh, Sister Bernadette…”

“It’s Shelagh.”

“Shelagh.” He tested her name, rolling each syllable round in his mouth. He pronounced her name as if it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard. It made her blush.

“There, now you know my name, Doctor Turner.”

“Mine is Patrick.”

“Patrick.”

He kissed her hand again. “Would you forgive me if I left you now? There is something important I have to do,” he said.

Shelagh raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Of course.”

“I’ll come back as soon as I can, I promise.” He stood up, took his bag and made for the door, then turned around, came back and pressed a kiss on her forehead. His lips were still dry and flaky.

“Could you ask Sister Julienne to come in? I have to tell her,” Shelagh said.

Patrick nodded. “Everything you want.” The love was written in his eyes, in the creases around his mouth when he smiled.

Sister Julienne entered almost as soon as Patrick had left and took her place beside Shelagh’s bed.

“I assume that, now you have spoken to Doctor Turner, you can tell me what you have wanted to say for a while now,” Sister Julienne said.

Shelagh’s heart pounded painfully in her chest. She had no doubt that the course she had chosen for herself was the right one, but there were parts of her journey that would hurt nonetheless. “I have decided to leave the Order.”

“I see.” Sister Julienne trained her eyes on the curtains.

Shelagh could read the sadness in them. It sent a twinge of anguish through her chest. She grabbed the older nun’s hand in hers. “You told me that love doesn’t get halved when we share it. Sister, I have so much love to give, love that I cannot allow myself to feel in the religious life. I think God has chosen a different life for me.”

Sister Julienne smiled sadly and gave Shelagh’s hand a tiny squeeze. “And Doctor Turner?”

“He wants me to be his wife.”

“Then I am happy for you, Sister.” Sister Julienne looked her in the eye. “Forgive me, but I have to ask: would you have made the same choice if Doctor Turner had not wanted you as his companion?”

Shelagh stilled. She knew the older nun asked this out of genuine concern for her well-being, but it still stung. She pondered the question for a minute. “Yes. I love Doctor Turner and Timothy with all my heart, but they have shown me that there is world outside of Nonnatus. I would have left even if I could not become Mrs. Turner.”

Sister Julienne smiled. “Then I am very, very happy for you, dear Sister,” she shook her head a little, “though I should probably not call you that anymore.”

Shelagh felt tears spring into her eyes. She hugged the older nun fiercely, almost clinging to her. “I’m sorry, Sister.”

“My dear, sweet girl, there is nothing to be sorry for. You’ve found love; how could anyone begrudge you that?” Sister Julienne whispered.

“But I am leaving you.”

“But you will remain one of us, won’t you?”

Shelagh released the religious sister and wiped her eyes. “Always.”

“Then I am glad, and wish you all the happiness in the world.”

“There is so much I have yet to do,” Shelagh said.

“And we will be glad to help you in any way we can.”

Shelagh took her handkerchief and dabbed her eyes.

“Now, try and rest a bit, hm? You are still convalescing,” Sister Julienne advised.

Shelagh nodded and sank back against the pillows. She felt tired, drained, and happier than she had ever been.

X

She slept a couple of hours and awoke because of a pair of feet thundered in the hallway outside. She had just enough time to put her glasses on before Timothy stormed into her room.

“Sister Bernadette!” he shouted. He spread his arms and launched himself on the bed, wrapping her in a very tight hug.

Shelagh laughed and stroked his back.

“Timothy!” Doctor Turner – _Patrick_ , she corrected herself- stood in the doorway, trying to look stern but not quite managing. “Sis- Shelagh is not quite well yet.”

“I’m sorry if I squeezed too tight,” Timothy muttered.

Shelagh brushed his hair out of his face. “Oh, I don’t mind.”

“Dad said I can’t call you Sister Bernadette anymore.”

“He’s quite right.”

Timothy slid from the bed and sat down on the wooden chair next to her, lifting the plate with uneaten cake and placing it on her nightstand.

“How are you feeling?” Patrick asked. He placed his hand on her forehead to gauge her temperature.

“I am quite alright,” she answered.

He sat down next to her, cradling her hand in his. He tickled the sensitive spot on her wrist with his index finger. Shelagh brushed his knuckles with her digits.

“Shelagh, did you pick your own name, just as when you picked one when you became a nun?” Timothy asked and put the half-eaten biscuit in his mouth.

“No, Timothy, my parents did. Shelagh is my old name.”

“Why didn’t you pick whatever name you wanted? Not that there’s anything wrong with Shelagh,” he said, spraying crumbs everywhere.

“Tim, no eating and talking at the same time,” Patrick warned him.

Timothy shrugged and chewed on.

“Did you do that important thing you had to do?” Shelagh asked. Her voice was soft, still a bit hoarse.

Patrick nodded. He felt in his coat pocket and withdrew a small velvet box. Shelagh gasped as he opened it, showing a simple ring with a tiny diamond. “Shelagh, do you want to be my wife?” Patrick asked. His voice was husky, almost unsure.

“And my mother?” Timothy added.

Tears sprang in Shelagh’s eyes whilst the corners of her mouth stretched into the biggest smile she had ever felt. “Yes!” She couldn’t say more.

Patrick slid the ring on her finger that had shortly worn another, then hugged her to his chest.

Shelagh pressed her face against his jumper and inhaled the scent of shaving foam and Henleys.

“Do you like the ring? It isn’t too fancy?”

“It is beautiful,” she whispered.

“I helped choosing it,” Timothy remarked.

Shelagh looked into Patrick’s eyes, losing herself in the hazel speckled with gold. This time, though, she read only love and happiness, no longer a bottomless longing. Patrick’s face came closer; she could feel his breath on her cheeks, could almost taste his lips. This time, though, their kiss was not forbidden. She…

Timothy coughed.

“Is anyone going to eat this cake?”

Patrick shot an angry look at his son.

Shelagh just laughed. “Go ahead!”

X

It was only later, when night had fallen, that she realised she no longer felt a knot under her sternum. The hole she had always felt had been filled; her longing sated. She closed her eyes and smiled.  
\- End-


End file.
